


the wind guides us

by novalotypo



Series: for it is never forgotten [1]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Introspection, Selectively Mute Link, but remembers all the wrong things, but she's always there, epona and twilight know what's up, fi doesn't speak, in which link tries to remember what zelda left him, the wind is blowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 04:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14741645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novalotypo/pseuds/novalotypo
Summary: It's difficult to tell exactly what Link's destiny wants from him. He fights, but it's not his sword. He remembers, but they're not his memories. The strangers he meets don't feel like strangers at all.He's beginning to think that the legends left out some very important details.





	the wind guides us

Sometimes, when the moon hits the peak of its trajectory, bathing the entirety of Hyrule in silver light, Link will let his mind wander. But just for a moment; monsters are always on the prowl, regardless of where he may be. 

Hungry Bokoblins and their equally as hungry and much larger Moblin counterparts. Lizalfos salvaging more weapons or arrows, too smart for their own good but too stupid to stay alive. A curious Wizzrobe dancing into camp. A Lynel wandering back into its territory. A Yiga Footsoldier or Blademaster, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The Stal-forms of monsters, brought back to life with a fierce tenacity that doesn’t nearly match up to their brittle forms.

They’re out there. They’re always out there. The night is dangerous. With darkness comes monsters, with monsters come demons, with demons come grudges thousands of years in the making...

Link heaves out a sigh. 

This is what happens when he lets his mind wander. 

Despite what he’s salvaged of his memories from a century ago, he’s never heard the Master Sword speak to him. Legend has it that an acolyte of Hylia Herself rests within the blade, guiding the Chosen One through the ages, sleeping for eons and then waking for just a moment to aid the Hero in driving off some sort of unspeakable evil before resting once more. An infinite loop of battle-broken nothingness.

What a nightmare. Link’s had only one repetition of that cycle, and that’s plenty for a lifetime and all subsequent rebirths.

The sword is quiet. It rests on the ground, in its sheath, never more than an arm’s length away from Link at any given time. 

Is the spirit still sleeping, even now? Has Link’s own hundred-year slumber driven the spirit to rest as well?

Never once in his travels has he heard even the faintest of whispers. Perhaps he’s looking for the wrong thing. There’s more than way to speak without words. He, of all people, should know. 

But sometimes, in the dark of night, when Link limps his way into a small cave or the ruins of a shelter from before the Calamity, sword dangling limply from his grip, he’ll hear a resonating sort of chime. Not through air, but through bone and mind, as if something’s coursing through his blood. 

Sometimes, when the dredges of sleep finally catch up to him, he’ll hear something almost like a calling. A title, not a name. A simple way of addressing someone. _Master._

He’s not sure what it is. It might not be the sword. For all he knows, it could be adrenaline or madness. Both are far more likely than the fabled spirit of the Master Sword. 

Flipping over on the cold ground, Link turns away from the moon above him. He won’t be getting any sleep tonight. Perhaps trekking to the Ancient Columns at night wasn’t the smartest choice, but if one of his many scattered memories rests within the dilapidated buildings around him, then it’s simply what needs to be done. 

His satchel is full of monster parts now. That’s what’s pumping adrenaline into his veins even after the violence has ended: the memory of blood on blood, blade on flesh, blade through flesh, fiery, vicious judgement handed down from Hero to monster, again, and again, and again, until no trace of evil remains. 

At least the moon’s passed peacefully. No blood moon tonight, and thank the Goddess for that. One round of one-to-twenty is enough for a day. 

This is what happens when he lets his mind wander. The whispers of instincts not his own breath in his ear, weaving tales of battles so long ago.

As for the memory. 

Link shifts uncomfortably again. He’s sure it’s so close, the fragment of his past almost tangible. But...

Well. It can wait until tomorrow. It’s best to remember something under the sun than in the cover of night. Then Link can return to reality and know that what he saw wasn’t just a dream.

With one final sigh, Link lets his eyes fall shut. He trusts his reflexes and sharp ears to drive off what petty monsters may roam these hills. 

He’s had enough sleep for the rest of his life, but exhaustion wins out in the end. Try as he may, but he’s still blood, flesh, and bone in the end. A shining blade and a cursed destiny don’t change that.

And so, because he’s just like every other living creature that eats, breathes, and dies, Link sleeps underneath the silver light and forgotten ruins of long ago.

* * *

Link remembers the first time he met the sword. He says _first_ , as in this version of him’s first, and _met_ , not saw, because the latter's rude. 

Saw goes one way. I see, I saw, I have seen. It’s an observation directed toward an event or a spectacle, something not inherently alive. 

Met implies an interaction. An exchange. I meet, I met, I have met. To meet involved two parties, both aware of each other’s being.

So. Met it is. From one weapon to another.

The Goddess’ loyal blades. Hers to command for the rest of eternity. That’s them — the Hero and the Master Sword. It’s quite romantic, really.

After wandering through the Lost Woods, guided by nothing but the embers drifting from his torch, Link wasn’t sure what he expected. A shrine? A tower? When did his journey become one big puzzle?

Instead, he was greeted by hundreds of Koroks, watching him, whispering amongst themselves in the rattle-speak of the forest spirits. 

Creepy? Yes. Off-putting? Definitely. 

But there was something in the air. Something old, old like the forest surrounding him, old like the fog that swallows travellers whole, old like his destiny and the legend dictating it.

And so he followed the Koroks. His father, who died one hundred years ago in both body and memory, told him sometime in the past: _Spirits are not demons._

Spirits are kindly beings, curious and playful but never ill-meaning or malevolent. There are spirits in everything: the warmth of a campfire, the bite of a cold gale, the flash of lightning, the rush of a flowing river. Spirits live with and among the living. Pray to a spirit for luck and you may find that your steed is kinder, that your sword is sharper, that the soles of your boots are tougher.

Now. The other side of the story.

Demons are evil. They are cruelty incarnate, bloodthirsty and cunning, revelling in slaughter and chaos. When they roamed the land, the earth was crimson and broken as the King of Demons led the charge on all things good. Monsters are but a shoddy imitation of what demons once were. Only the most evil of men can hear the whispers of the other side, and even then, those fools die with their blood curdled and their eyes wide with terror.

_But don’t worry_ , his father had said, one hundred and something years ago. _There are no more demons. The heroes drove them all away, with the spirits watching over them._ Then, smiling kindly down at his only son, he declared, _We won._

And Link had been scared, a little sceptical, but fascinated nonetheless. He was young then; just a child, too young to wield the sword. The Goddess had at least been merciful enough to give him a beginning of peace.

Zelda — _Princess_ Zelda is a common figure in Link’s memories. His father is not.

The memories he’s recovered play like a stage production: clear in form, with actors on a set. They’re perfect. Perhaps that’s what makes them feel foreign and strange. How does an imperfect boy fit into such a perfect narrative?

But there are more memories. Small fragments that burst to life into life during the simplest of actions, like flint being struck with a blade. 

Making lamb skewers not over the pot of the Dueling Peaks Stable, but with his father late at night, only to be caught by his mother, who joined them after scolding them both for setting fire to anything without her supervision. Picking apples not on the hills looking over Kakariko, but in the fields of Central Hyrule before the Calamity, back when he could pick and choose fruit liberally based on bruises. Grabbing a blade and heading out not to face a horde of Bokoblins, but to train early in the morning with the rest of the cadets, working diligently to become a knight just like his father.

Passing by an empty grave and remembering the despair of lowering his mother into the ground. Feeling only emptiness when his father followed only a few years after.

So many of them have filled in the empty void that is Link’s memories. But just like sparks, they’re short. Bright, warm, but so very short. Sometimes they’re just voices and other times they’re sights. Other times they impart memories to his other senses, or take over them all at once.

They’re imperfect, but they’re woven directly into the story of long-awaited revenge that Link’s living. Perhaps that’s why they’re so much more convincing.

What does it mean if the people Link truly remembers are the ones he can’t even see in his own memories?

Anyway.

He stepped into the clearing, the Great Deku Tree spoke to him, the Silent Princesses swayed gently in the wind, and the Master Sword glowed blue.

By some stroke of luck, Link found himself with the strength to remove the blade from the pedestal. And good thing he did: immediately after slinging the sword on his back, his consciousness faded, and the next morning he woke up to a small gathering of Koroks around the bed of leaves he was resting on.

Drawing the Master Sword wasn’t very exciting. The action of pulling a weapon from the ground isn’t an unfamiliar one, especially on Link’s journey to break every weapon in the Kingdom of Hyrule. 

What was interesting, however, was when Link pulled himself out of bed, guided by dozens of tiny Korok hands, to find that something new had lodged itself in the back of his mind.

Something new, old, and familiar. Not a memory, like the ones he’d been collecting, but more of a feeling, like the reflexes pulled from a fresh dream, one that lingers for a moment and then fades into obscurity. 

It felt like the imperfect memories. But not just one — no, a collection of them. 

Link wasn’t sure if they were his or not. Everything the Master Sword had to offer unto her master was shared among all past heroes. What’s to say that the memories it gave weren’t the same?

Oh. Speaking of memories. That memory with the sword was about Princess Zelda too. Poor girl. Forced into a life she didn’t want, beaten down again and again, sealed away with Calamity Ganon for a century…

The Goddess is many things. It appears that Her mercy is situational.

But the Master Sword? Well. Link hasn’t heard a word from the spirit residing within it. But the way it glows blue with retributive light in the presence of evil is enough to convince him that he isn’t as alone as he believes himself to be.

So yes, Link remembers meeting the Master Sword. It wasn’t as dramatic as the legends proclaim it to be. He doesn’t think it was too dramatic for the other heroes either. 

Goddess knows who writes the history books. Link knows for sure that the heroes didn’t write them. By the time people considered them important enough for history, they were dead.

Link’s been living in a world where he’s considered history. He’s beginning to realize that it was kinder to let the heroes die than let them live in a world that only remembers their story and not who they were.

* * *

Here’s the thing about his journey.

Four Divine Beasts. All corrupted with Calamity Ganon’s evil, causing havoc and general trouble to the people they were once to protect. In each, the spirit of a Champion waits for the last of them to deliver sweet revenge and free them all. 

From the two that Link’s manage to free – Vah Ruta and Vah Rudania – he’s learned that they’re really just enormous machines designed in such a convoluted way that he wonders what the Sheikah from ten thousand years ago were actually trying to accomplish. It’s almost as if they expected for their creations to be possessed by Malice and built them specifically to be an annoyance for the next Hero.

That’s what Link feels as he aims a final volley of bomb arrows at Windblight Ganon: annoyance. The Savage Lynel Bow screams in his hands, abused and beaten over the course of the battle, ready to break any second now. His fingers are bleeding and his entire body aches. A mantra of _hurry, hurry, hurry_ echoes through his head.

He may not be as skilled as he was before the Calamity, but this battle has drawn on long enough. If Windblight wanted to strike true fear into Link’s heart, have him tremble before its awful form, then it would have to turn back time and jump in Vah Ruta. Back then, in his first battle against a Scourge, the only thought going through his mind was _I have to survive_. Nowadays, it’s more akin to _Hurry up and die._

_It’s par for the course_ , he also thinks, but doesn’t think. Does he? It’s not him. Or is it? _The dungeon boss at the end of a dungeon._

It’s been happening a lot, these thoughts in his head. He doesn’t know why he’d think of a Divine Beast as a dungeon. The only prisoners are the Champions. Or perhaps he’s misunderstanding what a dungeon is. 

The bowstring snaps loose. Five explosive arrows soar directly into Windlight’s horrid form. The bow shatters into a million pieces in tandem with Windlight’s blood-curdling screech. 

Malice pours from the monster’s body, filling the air with the stench of sulfur, iron, and decaying flesh. Purple light erupts from the seams in Windblight’s broken body, and in one burst of light, the creature finally dies. 

Link sighs as he presses the Sheikah Slate to the final terminal. His cheeks are flush with cold and his bleeding fingertips have frozen about three times over now. All he wants to do is get back to Rito Village and do anything but fight. He’s shed enough blood for one day. 

As the terminal glows blue for the first time in a century, Link thinks of the requests he’s taken on. Maybe he’ll finally have time to make some salmon meunière for Genli now. He’s seen the shrine pedestal outside town; he just needs some help to figure out how to unlock it. 

“Well, I’ll be plucked. You defeated him, eh?”

Link turns to face yet another Champion’s spirit. The Champion drops from the sky, somewhat amused. A Rito warrior, standing proud and tall even in death, a familiar blue scarf wrapped around his neck. This one, like the others, is familiar – but not because of true recollection. He was in the memory at Revali’s Landing, and in a few others Link managed to recover. 

He doesn’t appear to be the most modest of people. But it could be worse. He could be an arrogant bully with an awful hairdo, a tiny boy with an ego far too large for his size, a poor man turned rich bastard, and hang on, when in Link’s life has he met any of those people?

“Who would’ve thought?” Revali asks rhetorically, condescending even after having being defeated by the monster Link just killed. “Regardless... well, I suppose I should thank you now that my spirit is free.”

Revali looks at him. Link stares back. He’s not quite sure what to say. In another life, maybe he would’ve had some witty quips to throw back. Or maybe not. He’s very silent in his memories. 

Even Revali takes note of Link’s silence. The Rito Champion steps forward and leans in, an eyebrow raised. “Have you become even quieter than before? By the Goddess, I didn’t think that was possible!”

Link shrugs. What’s the point of speaking when everyone understands Hylian sign? 

“Medoh is finally back to her rightful owner,” Revali continues, examining his wings as he clenches them. He pauses for an indignant huff, then fixes Link with a firm glare. “Don’t preen yourself just for doing your job. Perhaps you’ve proven your value as a warrior, but do know that your job is far from finished.”

Link nods. No kidding. He’s got a list of favours he needs to finish before he can even consider taking down Calamity Ganon. Then there are the shrines and the towers, and after that, the Koroks and their enormous game of hide-and-seek. 

He he has to do everything he can before taking on Calamity Ganon. For all he knows, the moment he defeats the Demon King is the moment he dies. He’s a man out of time, in both meanings of the phrase.

Revali sighs to himself. “I do suppose you’ve proven your value as a warrior,” he admits. Then, because it’s just like him to do so, he adds on, “A warrior worthy of _my_ unique ability.”

The rest is reflex. Link’s been through this two times already; he knows how it goes. It appears that the Champions want to continue the fight, not only through the Divine Beasts, but also through Link. Mipha’s Grace for healing, Daruk’s Protection for safety, and now, as Revali has so eagerly explained to him, Revali’s Gale, which throws him up high up into the air with an enormous updraft. For ease of exploration.

After all’s been said and done, Revali turns to glance at Hyrule Castle in the distance. Even from here, the Malice swallowing the castle is tangible. A firm determination burns in the Champion’s eyes. “It’s now time to move on and start making preparations for Medoh’s strike on Ganon. But only if you think you’ll still need my help while you’re fighting inside Hyrule Castle.”

Link nods again. Revali seems to enjoy the silent but swift agreement.

“Feel free to thank me now,” he preens, almost taunts, head lifted high. His entire stance is formal and proud, exuding a unique sort of Champion’s pride.

Well, alright. It’s always nice to thank people for favours. So Link raises one hand just as his body’s dissolving into gold light and signs, _Thank you._

Revali stiffens. Whether it’s because of offense or discomfort is anyone’s guess. “Never mind,” he says curtly, turning away and looking regally off into the distance. “Just go.”

Link nods. Out of all the Champions so far, Link likes Revali best. Not based on character or on conduct, but because Revali doesn’t feel the need to apologize for his failures or drag Link back into the past. 

The past is something they’d all rather forget. They past is something Link’s already forgotten. The only path left for them is in the future. There’s no time to linger on what’s lost. 

“Do try your best,” Revali says as a final farewell. He rolls his eyes as he does so, but it’s not ill-meaning. “You’d better, for all of us.”

And then Link’s form breaks into particles of gold. 

As his spirit drifts high into the sky and away from Vah Medoh, he swears he hears Revali utter, “The princess has been waiting an awful long time.”

For some reason, Link thinks, _As she always has been._

* * *

There’s a wolf that likes to follow Link around.

He’s not sure where it came from or how it’s managed to track him from one end of Hyrule to the other, but it’s always there. 

During the day, it’ll stalk behind in the shadows, watching him. Following him. It’s certainly not a normal wolf. No, it’s much larger, much more regal, and from what Link has observed of it, much more vicious.

Link decides to name it Twilight. It’s fitting, since the wolf insists on slinking out of the darkness to pace by his side around twilight almost every day. In the coldest of nights, Twilight will step carefully out of the shadows, peering around before fully revealing itself. 

Himself. Yes, himself. Link doesn’t know how, though it’s clear the wolf’s a male. He doesn’t check, doesn’t bother risking it. Wolves are still wolves; he’d rather not lose a hand.

Link does, however, linger over Twilight’s ears when they rest by a campfire. He quickly discovers that the wolf has blue earrings so similar to his own that it’s uncanny. Perhaps Twilight’s an emissary of the Goddess, or just a very bold spirit of the wild. That would explain the strange markings on his head and the chain around his paw. 

Strange. It’s all very, very strange. 

Even Epona is perfectly comfortable around Twilight. In fact, sometimes, when Link leaves camp to go off to forage some more supplies, he’ll walk in on Epona and Twilight facing each other, making sounds Link can’t comprehend in an almost conversational manner. 

Then they’ll see him and quickly fall silent. They’ll stare at him, beady hazel eyes and piercing blue eyes looking directly into his soul, as if he’s somehow offended them by interrupting them. 

On nights when that happens, Link makes an effort to toss Epona more apples and cook up some extra meat for Twilight. There’s another strange thing: Twilight only eats cooked meat. He won’t touch raw meat like other wolves or dogs. In fact, he prefers meats that are a little more dressed up, soaked in curry sauces or seasoned with peppers. Link’s never met a picky wolf before. 

They’re a strange group, their ragtag team of three. A gentle yet swift steed that charges into battle instead of running away, a wolf spirit that behaves a little too human to be an animal, and an amnesiac with a tendency to remember all the wrong things. 

Oh – how could he forget? And the sword. A sword that holds the memories of everyone who wielded it before Link. A sword that can cut through Malice and purge evil from this plane of existence. A sword that Link’s beginning to suspect speaks to him in memory instead of words.

That’s their little group of four. A horse, a wolf, a sword, and a traveller. It goes down to three during the day, but fills back in during combat regardless of whether the sun’s out or not. 

It’s impossible to say what draws them together. Perhaps it’s Link’s destiny, the fate that was shaped for him before he was even born into this world, that pulls all of them in. The sword is bound to the Hero’s soul, and from what he’s heard from the stablehands, it’s clear that Epona might be the Hero’s steed. As for Twilight... well, he could be a god or a spirit, sent by the Goddess to aid Link in his quest. Or he could be the soul of a warrior, reborn into a form that the breath of the wild shaped for him.

It’s all very hypothetical. They don’t have much in common, considering they’re not exactly of the same species, let alone even vaguely similar in form. There is, however, a common talent they all share.

They’re all very good at killing. 

It’s nowhere near as morbid as it sounds. What sort of hero isn’t good at killing? How are you supposed to defend a kingdom if you can’t find the nerve to thrust a blade through a Bokoblin every now and then?

In this post-Calamity world, survival is everything. All Hylian travellers carry short swords or knives. The Zora wield silver spears. Gorons walk with clenched fists and tight shoulders. Gerudo women never forget their scimitars. Everyone who walks these wild roads knows of the dangers that come with exploring. 

In this post-Calamity world, freedom comes with a price. Nowhere is safe. If you want safety, then carve it out yourself. 

So no, killing isn’t a horrid thing. It’s indistinguishable from self-defense or heroism these days. Which is good, because otherwise Link is quite sure people would call him a monster. 

Epona is a gentle, sweet steed. She’d quick, loyal, but has no issue trampling over a horde of Bokoblins. Particularly stubborn monsters have the misfortune of being pinned under her hooves and crushed to death. Even unluckier ones meet their end by her teeth. 

Twilight’s a wolf. A big wolf. A big wolf that can apparently teleport from shadow to shadow with some strange magic Link doesn’t recognize. He spots monsters before Link does and makes it clear when he wants to kill something, because by the time Link runs over, there’s nothing left except for bloody entrails and weapons. It’s sort of terrifying, actually. 

The sword is unique. People may ask, how can a sword be good at killing when it’s the wielder who’s killing with it? And that’s an excellent question. 

But the Master Sword isn’t just a sword. It’s a blade soaked in the blood of countless monsters and demons. It’s a blade that remembers how to kill, how to deliver judgement. Link knows this because he’s been able to perform maneuvers he doesn’t think he learned as a knight while wielding the Master Sword. 

A simple dodge will turn into a roll. Said roll will put him behind the enemy. As he’s dragging the blade through the monster’s back, he’ll think, _how did I do that?_

It’s the sword. Or maybe it’s the whispers of the heroes that linger within the sword. Either way, the Master Sword is a swift executioner.

And then there’s Link himself. Despite the fact that his hundred-year slumber took his memories in exchange for his life, he hasn’t lost the reflexes and instincts that he trained for so long ago. Perhaps he can’t take down three Lynels at once, but a single Lynel poses no threat. A few well-timed arrows and a claymore through the spine tends to take down any monster.

He can’t help but think, however, that he’s not quite the knight he was before.

Knights don’t raise a blade at every sound in the night. Knights don’t fire off arrows before knowing what their target is. Knights don’t look at monsters and see entrails and weapons instead of actual threats. 

Link’s learned his lesson. Apparently, walking into a stable covered in blood makes you into some sort of local demon. It’s frighteningly accurate.

Oh well. If some of his decorum was lost along with his memories, then so be it. He doesn’t mind being an efficient killer. It makes enhancing armour much easier. He just wishes his gloves didn’t smell so coppery all the time.

* * *

“Is that your wolf, young man?”

Link flinches in his seat in front of the cooking pot. Jerking his head up, he meets the kindly gaze of an old woman. She’s one of the oldest people Link’s ever seen on the road, much less at a stable, with a head of gray hair tied up in a bun and a smile to go with wrinkled skin. Despite her obvious age, she’s dressed in a thick red shawl reinforced with leather shoulder pads. A short sword hangs by her side, tucked snuggly in a battered and scratched sheath.

This woman has seen real combat.

Nodding curtly, Link throws a couple more pinches of thyme into the pot, leaning forward to stir it around with a wooden ladle. Twilight opens a single eye from where he’s sprawled on the ground, appraising the newcomer. Strangely enough, he simply huffs out a breath and closes his eyes again. 

Link stares. Twilight... is perfectly comfortable around a stranger. That’s never happened before. Then again, most travellers know to stay away from a dog-wolf. Or just a wolf in general. 

The old woman sits herself down on the stool beside Link. She pauses for a moment to take in Twilight’s form, then chuckles and runs a wrinkled hand over his head. 

Twilight purrs. Link startles. 

He’s not even a cat. Or even _remotely_ cat-like. How on earth did he make that noise?

“What a sweet boy,” the old woman says, still smiling, apparently oblivious to the fact that said sweet boy is a wolf twice the size of any normal member of his species. The edges of her eyes crinkle as she continues to run her fingers through Twilight’s fur. “Is this your travelling companion?”

Hesitating for a short moment, Link nods. _And her_ , he signs, then points to Epona, who’s being led to the stables by Canni. 

The old woman takes a moment to take in Epona’s form, then turns back. “Two reliable companions out in this dangerous world,” she hums fondly. Link probably isn’t the first strange traveller she’s spoken to. “You’re a lucky boy.”

He can’t help but reply to that. _Lucky in what sense of the word?_ he asks, smiling bitterly.

The old woman sighs, shakes her head, and flashes back a smile equally as world-weary. “In what sense, indeed?”

Then her eyes raise to the Blade of Evil’s Bane strapped to Link’s back. Her expression changes from tired wisdom to solemn understanding.

“Ah.” A short sound denoting a sudden revelation. She bows her head a bit, as if apologizing. “I’m sorry. That makes three reliable companions, doesn’t it?”

Link freezes. 

How... how does he respond to that? How in the world does he speak to someone who knows the Master Sword to be a sentient, conscious being?

_How did you know?_ Is all Link can manage with his uncooperative hands. Twilight’s eyes slowly open to stare at him, two glowing sapphires in a form woven together by darkness and the very essence of the loneliest time of day, silently evaluating his reaction.

The woman laughs, her entire body moving with each rise and fall of pitch. There’s something about her that’s familiar, not to Link, no, not to this Link. But maybe to another him, another version of him in a past life, or at least to someone the sword remembers. 

“I’ve been around for a very long time,” the old woman says, looking deep into the flames. Her dark eyes reflect the dancing embers like starlight. “I was born in the Age of Burning Fields, you know. That was a dark time for us all, learning how to recover from the Great Calamity.”

Link swallows. He nods to let her know that he’s listening. And he is. He’s listening intently to the consequences of his failures. 

This is the world he left behind. It’s cowardly to turn away from the ruins of what he wasn’t able to protect. 

There's a lot he wasn't able to protect.

“I was lucky enough to be in Hateno when the world started to get back on its feet. Uma dedicated so much of her time to making Hateno the self-sustaining village it is now.” The old woman laughs again, her voice ringing with nostalgia. “I still remember those days. I was no botanist, and I hated getting dirty. But then I’d remember the ruins of Fort Hateno and tell myself, you have to work with what you’ve been given, because that’s what the heroes of 100 years ago did.”

Link closes his eyes. Twilight nudges his hand with a wet snout, throat rumbling out some wolfish noise. 

As much as he tells himself _move on, move on, there’s no point lingering in the past_ , it still hurts when he remembers just how many people died because he couldn’t even stay alive long enough to stand by the Princess when the world needed him the most. 

“The stories of the Great Calamity are just fables now. It’s simply how the passage of time has chosen to happen – by eliminating the unsavoury parts of history and turning them into stories rather than experiences.” The old woman pauses for a moment, watching Link dish the contents of his chowder into some bowls he borrowed from the stable’s restaurant. “Would you like some help with that?”

In the end, he and the old woman end up walking around the stable, offering chowder to anyone who’ll take it. He ends up carrying the pot with them after a few rounds while the woman hands out bowls to hungry travellers who’ve had the misfortune of running into and being mugged by monsters. They’re lucky. If they hadn’t been carrying food, they’d be dead.

It’s amusing, watching the reactions of people who know him and people who don’t. 

Myti cocks a single eyebrow up as she receives her bowl. Trott slinks out from behind the stable, disappointed that it’s not gourmet meat, but reaches eagerly for a bowl anyway. Haite jumps up and down excitedly, running circles around Link as the old woman dishes up a serving for the small child. Embry joins the crowd soon enough, patting Link on the back and declaring how he’s really helping business. Toffa sits away from the crowd and closer to the fire, smiling knowingly at the old woman as they hand him his serving. Botrick walks in sometime later, surprised at all the activity, but thankful for the free meal.

That composes the list of people who know Link. The other adventurers and travellers glance at him curiously while others look at him like he’s evil incarnate. 

Then again. This is Central Hyrule. Where there aren’t Guardians, there are Lynels, or Stone Taluses, or Hinoxes. The closer Link travels to the castle, the more on edge he gets. His movements become swifter and twice as deadly, previously foreign techniques become second nature, and the sword glows with a divine light that says, _Eradicate the evil._

It’s a lot of stress. There’s a lot of evil in the heart of Hyrule. So if any travellers here at Outskirt Stable say Link’s ridden the Lord of Satori Mountain down from the cherry blossom trees and asked Embry to board him, or if they say he’s taken down two Guardians at once by having them fire beams at each other, or even if they say he’s escorated a caravan of sick Sheikah from Kakariko to Rito Village by following the road starting at Rebonae Bridge and ending at Carok Bridge while fending off Guardians all the way, Link can’t deny any of it in good conscience. 

Hyrule Field may be a no man’s land. But among their group, they don’t have one man. All they’ve got is a horse, a wolf, a sword, and an amalgamation of century-old sorrows and millenia-old memories, all packaged in one scarred skinsuit. 

Anyway. In hindsight, chowder isn’t the best recipe for travel, since. You know. It’s a liquid. 

What was he thinking, cooking up an entire pot? 

At the very least, he’s cleared out some of his milk and butter. No matter what he does, he can never get fresh ingredients to last. The most he’s done is wrap his perishables in cloth and bundle the entire batch together in his sapphire circlet, and even then, they don’t last long. 

There’s nothing he can do about it. All he needs to do is make trips back to Hateno or Kakariko if he’s in need of a warm, fresh meal. Recently, he’s been visiting Lurelin to get his fill of seafood. 

Cooking: the most effective way to drive away nightmares. If Link’s to be chased by his legacy everywhere he goes, he might as well do it on a full stomach.

After everyone’s fed and full, Link and the old woman make their way back to the campfire. Link sets the pot back down over the fire and the old woman serves up three more bowls. She hands one to Link, sets one down for Twilight, whose ears perk up excitedly, and rests one down on her lap. 

“Even now, we have legends,” she muses, stirring the contents of her bowl around with a wooden spoon. “Only a select few remember them clearly, though. There are legends of a forest that swallows people whole, sightings of dragons in the far corners of Hyrule, rumours about the god of Satori Mountain... Hyrule is rich with spirits and gods. We live in a very magical land.”

No kidding. In order, that’s the Lost Woods, Dinraal, Farosh, and Naydra, and the Lord of Satori Mountain. To be fair, the Lost Woods is almost impossible to navigate without a little help from the Koroks. Nobody these days ventures deep into Central Hyrule except for thrill-seekers, and even they know to stay away from Satori Mountain when the summit glows green. 

But the dragons? Really? Three giant, enormous dragons that show up every twelve hours and casually make rounds of entire regions of Hyrule while spitting out orbs of thunder, fire, and ice? How in the world are they still considered legends?

_Nothing’s quite as magical as it sounds when you’ve seen it all a few times_ , Link signs, huffing. No wonder he’s a legend now. Everything’s a legend to these people. 

The old woman chuckles, then gives the chowder a try. She seems impressed, if her arched brows mean anything. “I’m not surprised a traveller like yourself has seen so much of Hyrule. Then again, if you can’t trust a good cook, you can’t trust anyone!”

Link smiles for what seems like the first time in a while, then looks down at Twilight, who has somehow already finished his bowl. The wolf licks the sides of the bowl clean, then looks up, as if expecting more. 

Since he’s in a good mood, Link gives his bowl to hungry beast. He opts for some more solid food that he has packed away – namely, meat skewers. Meat skewers are the solution to every problem. Sprinkle on some goron spice, some thyme, really any herb or flavouring whatsoever, and you’ve got yourself a recipe that never grows old.

The three of them eat in silence, bathing in the warmth of the fire and the waft of chowder from the mostly-empty pot. Silver light rains down from the skies above above, painting the entire land in a sheen of faint sparkling. The night is dangerous, but it’s also beautiful. 

Then, softly, the old woman says, “If I may ask, Hero... do you hear the voice of the blade?”

_How proficient are you right now, wielding that sword on your back?_

_Legend says that an ancient voice resonates inside it._

_Can you hear it yet... hero?_

Link doesn’t speak. Or rather, he doesn’t ever want to speak. What’s the point in speaking when actions always speak louder than words?

“I don’t,” he rasps out, voice rough from disuse. It’s been so long since he’s given his voice to anyone. Why this woman? Why her? Why does she seem so familiar? “But she’s alive. I feel her. She’s with me.” With a tone of finality, he says, “She’s always been.”

The old woman nods. It’s not like others, who nod only because they’re listening and not understanding. No, there’s something about this woman, something about the invisible shroud of weariness and sadness that she carries with her like the shawl on her shoulders. It tells Link that no matter what she says, her words are never empty. 

She knows. Why does she know?

“Do you believe,” the old woman suddenly asks, “in the hundred-year cycle of rebirth?”

Twilight’s ears twitch. Link blinks, then shakes his head. _I don’t know of it_ , he signs, retreating back into familiar silence. 

A hundred-year cycle of rebirth?

_You have been asleep for the past 100 years._

Sounds awfully familiar.

The old woman hums, then places her empty bowl aside. “In terms of Hylian myths, it’s far newer than anything you might’ve heard. The cycle of rebirth – the hundred-year cycle of rebirth, to be exact – is a belief that spread quickly soon after the Great Calamity and during the Age of Burning Fields.”

Link swallows and clenches his hands into fists. He’s not surprised. 

“So much was lost in the Great Calamity,” the old woman says, an unfathomable sadness sweeping over her wrinkled, sun-kissed features. Her despair is almost tangible, pressing down like a strike to the chest, pinning Link down to his past and demanding, _Do you understand? Do you see what you’ve done?_

What can he say? What can he do now? It’s too late to change anything. 

So Link signs, _I’m sorry_ , hands shaking, because it’s the only thing he can do for the people who he wasn’t able to save and the ones that came after. But the old woman isn't looking. She's looking somewhere far into the past. And so he drops his hand, squeezing it into a fight fist.

Apologies. Ha. How pathetic. The dead don’t hear apologies. 

Twilight nudges his hand with a wet nose, gruffly barking out something akin to a question. Something along the lines of _You okay?_

The old woman continues, looking off into the night. “I’m not sure who first spread the word, but I’m confident it was because of grief. They told tales of legends we all know – the Chosen Hero and Princess, the Calamity– but then asked, why them and not us? Who says we can’t be reborn, just like them?”

Of course. It’s only natural. Link knows this, because it’s the first thing he asked himself when the Princess’ voice guided him outside the walls of the Shrine of Resurrection. _Why me?_

“A century is a long time to wait,” the old woman says. Her voice is quiet, but firm. “But many believe that once they die, all they need to do is wait until their soul is returned to our world.” She looks at Link. No, not at him. Through him. “There is never only one chance to make things right.”

For a short moment, the shadow of the Coliseum Ruins disappears entirely as the moon hovers directly above. But only for a short second. The shadows reclaim the land soon after. Even Twilight stares, his too-blue eyes pointed skyward.

After an extended silence, the woman clears her throat. “So, young man, do you believe in such a cycle?”

_To an extent_ , Link signs. His hands still shake, but not as badly as before. _I believe in rebirth. But I don’t think it only takes 100 years for a soul to return to this world._

The woman smiles. It’s only then that Link realizes she’s been running her hands over the sheath of her blade, her calloused fingers exploring the tiny ridges and valleys that years of travelling have given it. “How long do you think it takes?”

_As long as the Goddess deems necessary_ , Link answers.

“Ah. Yes, Hylia’s will is a mysterious one. Then, hypothetically, how long do you think it would take for your soul to be reborn?”

Link sighs. He knows the answer to this one. _When the world goes to shit again._

The old woman laughs, full and hearty, shrugging off her sadness to let loose a bellyful of free laughter. “I can’t say I disagree! Though, I must say, I wouldn’t be able to stand being thrown back into this world every century. Could you imagine it?” Slapping a hand on her knee, the old woman grins, her eyes crinkling with mirth. “I’d be saying, no, let me sleep, I’ve had enough of mortal struggles. Can’t you hurry up and reward me for being a pious servant already?”

A sharp clap of laughter makes its way out of Link’s throat. He can’t help it. That’s simultaneously the funniest and most relatable thing anyone’s ever said to him. _Maybe the Goddess believes that a new life is a suitable reward._

“I certainly hope not,” the old woman responds, huffing indignantly. “If She truly is omniscient, then She’d know that when we’re done, we’re done.” A pause, then: “That is, if we don’t leave any unfinished business in this world.”

Right on the money again. Link has no idea who this woman is, but she’s building herself up as a prophetic figure in his mind. 

And, since it’s worth a try, Link asks, _How long do you think it would take your soul to be reborn?_

The old woman falters. 

There it is again: the undercurrent of sadness that flows through her very presence. She rests in a crystalline ocean of emotion, swaying gently with the wind of fate and the tide of life, bobbing up and down, up and down. In those precious moments when the wind abides and the storm rages elsewhere, she draws her weary hands through the water around her, in control of how the ripples move for a rare moment. Then the wind returns and with it the tempest, carrying her ceaselessly into the uncertain future with all the burdens of the fiery past. 

“Me?” The sadness in the old woman’s eyes is deep but old, like an ugly scar. Look at it long enough, and eventually, it loses meaning. “Why, I can’t see what the Goddess would have in store for a simple lady like me. But in Her infinite mercy, I’d like to believe that it wouldn’t take ten thousand years.”

That’s another jab at Link’s inherited legacy of heroism, birthed from time immemorial, traversing open skies, vast oceans, fields of twilight, the very flow of time itself. 

Has it really been ten thousand years since the Goddess last set him down to this world?

_It won’t take that long_ , Link signs, trying to smile something kinder than what he feels. _Your existence is proactive._

The old woman nods her head slowly and solemnly. “As opposed to reactive.”

Endless wisdom, this traveller. This is the first time – the first time! – that Link’s been able to speak so freely to someone. 

It’s always the elderly that understand him best. With age comes experience, they say. But that experience is rooted in the desperate will to survive against all odds.

“As I understand it, the Legend of the Hero is centered around a great journey, followed by the sealing or eradication or a great evil.” Staring past the Aquame Bridge, the old woman gazes far off into the distance. It’s not difficult to guess what she’s looking at. “Along the way, the Hero relieves the suffering of many, travelling from realm to realm, growing stronger with each battle, until his strength is great enough to retrieve the Blade of Evil’s Bane.”

_The Sword that Seals the Darkness_ , Link repeats, in words he’s more familiar with. Then, a little shamefully, he admits, _I don’t know much beyond that._

“There’s so much that we’ve forgotten,” the old woman says, almost laments, and for some reason, Link gets the feeling she isn’t just talking about the Great Calamity. 

A part of him knows what she’s speaking of. And then that knowledge fades the moment he tries to latch onto it, like the remnants of a dream.

_What do you mean?_ he asks, because something deep inside him wants to know. That same something tells him he already knows.

For a moment, the old woman sits in silence, gaze slowly shifting from the castle to the fire, then to Link. 

“What would you say,” asks the woman, “if I were to tell you that, many millennia ago, a kingdom by the name Hyrule of exact likeness to the one we speak in at this moment was sealed away while the entire world was drowned beneath a vast ocean?”

It’s familiar. It’s so familiar. In his dreams – his dreams? Are they his dreams? Whose are they? – on days where crimson bleeds through his waterlogged tunic, even when he’s out in the fields of Necluda, he’ll hear ocean waves and see blue until the horizon. Oceans as far as the eye can see. Vast seas that none can swim across. Waters that yield no fish to catch. 

A solitary kingdom, trapped in time, waiting for someone to break it out of stasis. A red boat – a blue amulet – the edge of a blade – a piercing golden light– 

Link takes a deep breath. It smells of the ocean. His fingers move in the only way they can. _I would say that it feels right, because I can still feel the salt in my clothes._

The old woman lets out a sigh of relief. Her eyes are warm, and her smile is kind. “Then I suppose not all is forgotten.”

_I wouldn’t go that far_ , Link warns, shaking his head. _I was asleep for a long time. I don’t even remember who I was before the Great Calamity._

“Memory is a fickle thing. But you know what the say about courage.”

She pauses, as if to see if Link knows how to continue. He frowns, then shakes his head. 

The old woman reaches out and rests her palm over Link’s right hand. His hand _burns_ for a moment, like hot metal pressing down on his skin. But only for a moment. 

“Courage need not be remembered,” she says, her voice hushed and eyes closed as if in prayer. “For it is never forgotten.”

They sit there, the two of them, in a world that is undoubtedly unkind. The Goddess may be merciful, but She wasn’t the one who created the world. All She can do is work with the pieces that She has. All the people down here in this dark world must make kindness for themselves. 

Eventually, the old woman sighs, looking up at the sky. The moon’s moved some, no longer hovering directly above. “It’s quite late. Hero or not, you should get some sleep.”

She’s right. Their conversation stretched far longer than Link expected it to, and not in a bad way. Not at all. 

As Link hands over a single red rupee to Embry, he turns to the old woman. _Goodnight_ , he signs. After a brief hesitation, he adds, _What’s your name?_

“It’s rude to ask another’s name without giving your own.”

_I have a feeling you already know mine_ , he counters, raising an eyebrow.

The old woman mirrors his expression, then tilts her head, as if shrugging in her unique way. “I do suppose that you all use the same name. Did you know that? ‘Link’ and ‘Hero’ have become somewhat interchangeable in the forgotten legends.” She gives a deliberate pause. “As for me? I don’t care much for my own name. For you, though... you can call me Grandma.”

Link’s breath catches. Grandma, Grandma, he can’t remember his own but at the same time he can, what is this? 

His hands flail as he struggles to find something to say. _Do you know any more legends?_

“Not as many as I’d like, I’m afraid. Only legends relating to the Great Sea.”

He wants to ask more, but it’d be selfish to demand anything from someone who doesn’t owe him anything. So instead he nods one last time. “Goodnight.” And he adds on, “Grandma.”

The old woman dips her head. She smells of home. “Goodnight, Hero. May you have pleasant dreams.”

* * *

When Link wakes in the morning, early and before almost everyone else, he looks around.

The old woman is nowhere to be seen. But there’s something new at the foot of his bed. 

First, a piece of parchment. _Do come visit me in Lurelin_ , it says, in neat, loopy letters. _If I’m not in town, give the beach a try._

Second, a bottle of something that resembles pumpkin soup, but lighter and more seasoned. It’s still hot, its warmth kept in by a cork. Curiously, Link pulls the cork out, watching the steam rise for a moment before lifting the bottle to his lips. 

It’s amazing. It’s better than any soup he’s had, and he’s had a lot of soup. This inconspicuous concoction goes down like liquid gold, smooth and warm and making every wrong right. 

He stares incredulously at the bottle. What in the name of Hylia is in this soup? Pumpkin? Carrot? Magic?

_If you want more, you’ll have to visit me_ , the parchment reads, as if predicting Link’s thoughts perfectly. _This recipe is the only thing I won’t give away!_

For some reason, Link’s face splits into a wide grin. 

That’s just like her, to give everything she can to the people she loves. Even across a kingdom. 

Even across an ocean.

**Author's Note:**

> botw actively goes out of its way to reference other zelda games, link manages to recover a memory from the master sword, and apparently nobody in hyrule knows anything about the legend of the hero besides "hero and princess destroy big evil". that's enough of a starting point for me.


End file.
